Page 56 of The Art of Drowning

“You were as kids. Thick as thieves.” The regret made his voice strained, like he had to drag the words out.

“That was a long time ago, Dad. I don’t know if I’m ready to see what’s in the envelope. It might be nothing.” It might be everything. It might make me feel something other than this weird sense of numbness that washed over me whenever I thought about him.

Of course I was sad he was gone, but it wasn’t just sadness. There was anger too. Sam had been a selfish person. Even when we were kids. Maybe our parents didn’t remember him that way, but I did. I remembered the times when he’d get a gift on my birthday so he wouldn’t be upset and how on his birthday, I got told that it was Sam’s special day. We seldom ate my favorite foods because Sam didn’t like them. When he figured out that I really liked this local mom-and-pop restaurant that served homestyle fish and chips, he pretended that the smell of fish made him sick, and we stopped going there.

There was nothing good in that envelope, and I knew it in my bones. No good would come of opening it. The thought of burning it struck me, but maybe I’d just ignore it for a while and see how I felt down the road. When it came to anything to do with Sam, I’d learned that ignoring it was often the best solution.

“You’re not curious?”

I shrugged and then remembered that he couldn’t see me. “I don’t know, Dad. It doesn’t feel real yet. Do you have any idea what could be in there?”

There was a pause, and then Dad let out another sigh. Something creaked in the background. The screen door maybe. The one leading to the back yard had always squeaked and Dad’s promise to fix it eventually had never come to fruition.

“When he was sick, when it looked bad, he was told…” Dad cleared his throat. “He was told that some people wrote letters to their loved ones. To be read after they were gone. It was supposed to be cleansing or something. I forget the mental mumbo jumbo of it all.”

Right. Because anything to do with mental health was mumbo jumbo to him. If you were sad, take a walk. If you were depressed, cheer up. When I was a teenager, I’d loved my parents. I thought they were great, even after I came out. They’d been shocked and maybe they were a little weird about it at first. But they’d ended up accepting me with little fanfare, little fuss. They didn’t throw me a party or anything, but I always thought that they tried.

But when I went to college, it was almost like they were relieved that I was gone and in the back of my mind, I wondered if it was because I was gay. Had they tried to accept me but then found that not seeing me was easier? Out of sight, out of mind? They wouldn’t have to deal with it if I was never around.

“So you think it’s some sort of sappy goodbye note?” Nausea churned my stomach. I wasn’t sure I could reconcile the idea of Sam sitting down and writing me a thoughtful goodbye note of any sort. It was more likely that I’d open it and find a piece of paper that said eat shit. And what would I tell my parents then?

“It could be anything. I just… it could be tough to read. I don’t like the idea of you dealing with that all alone.”

I bit my tongue so hard I was surprised when blood didn’t start dripping down my chin. Just because I didn’t live close anymore didn’t mean that I was alone. I had friends—which I’d neglected since the news of Sam’s death broke—and a support system all my own. People who listened to me rant about how shitty going home made me feel and didn’t judge me for going back, year after year. Holiday after holiday.

“I’ll be fine,” I managed to choke out. It was a good thing my phone was on the counter, because when I stood up, my hands were shaking. Not just my hands. My whole body. It was like my fight or flight mode had been triggered and I could feel the way I wanted to throw my phone into the abyss.

“I need to go,” I told him, trying not to sigh. Dad was going through enough; he didn’t need my annoyance heaped up on top of everything else.

“You’ll keep in touch, right?” Dad asked, sounding small and sad and frail.

“I’ll keep in touch.” The words left my mouth before I could think better of it. Maybe they were just having a come-to-Jesus moment about the fragility and brevity of life, but it was fucking unsettling to go from having parents who were okay with three phone calls and one in-person visit a year, to having parents who called and texted and wanted you to talk to them about shit.

“Okay, son. Thanks for your help. I should let you go.”

“Bye, Dad.” My hands shook when I ended the call. Relief washed through me, and then guilt shortly after. My parents had lost a son, and I wasn’t doing anything to try and make it better for them. I wasn’t offering up any sort of understanding about how much they might need me now because all I could think of was how it felt like, somewhere along the way, they’d chosen Sam. It might have been childish, but I didn’t know how to get past that feeling.

Or worse, if I even wanted to.

TWENTY-EIGHT

damien

NOW

Without a word, Bowie set a coffee in front of me and then plopped down in the seat opposite my desk. Bowie and I had gone into business together, opening up a small graphic design company while we were still in college. We specialized in custom brand creation and web presence. Bowie did the heavy lifting on the design work, and I took care of the website development end of things. With the rise in AI use, it was getting harder to keep going.

“You’re a godsend.” I grabbed the coffee and took a sniff. Sometimes Bowie liked to bring me random drinks disguised as coffee. The pumpkin spice latte he’d brought to fuck with me once hadn’t been bad, but he could keep the London Fog. It wasn’t even coffee.

“Have you slept since you got back?”

“I’ve slept.” I also drove out of town one night for a fucking booty call and stayed awake most of the night, drove back to make it in time to work the other day and had been spiraling ever since. Spiraling kept me up at night so, no, I wasn’t getting the most sleep. But I’d survive. Coffee would help. Coffee never let me down.

“This week?”

“Shut up. I don’t look that bad.”

“No.” Bowie paused. “You look worse. I’m concerned about you.”